


Easy to Take Off, Harder to Fly

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Alternating, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Soul Bond, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-14 00:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2171217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The minute the sigils and other gnarled gashes were revealed, Sam’s jaw snapped shut. They were worse than either of them could have imagined; another set was forming across his chest, claws ripping his skin to the bone. He could <i>feel</i> it. With a shuddering breath, he looked up and uttered, “We’re dying.”</p><p>Or: After being abducted by a soul eater, Dean and Castiel discuss the nature of their bond from so long ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy to Take Off, Harder to Fly

Consciousness slipped intermittently between the overwhelming pain and the need to put himself elsewhere, to temporarily escape from the situation he _stupidly_ got himself into. The room, possibly a hundred yards long and a third that wide, faded into and out between labored breaths. Around him, the concrete was dyed an eerie mixture of red and black, occasional droplets dispersing into the liquid surface. He couldn't see his reflection – all he saw were skylights and hopelessness.

How long he had been there, he didn't know. Time was relative when his wrists were strung up by fishhooks to a support beam, another two jammed through his trapezius’ so he could be hoisted up – again – and left to writhe for minutes on end. It may have been a few hours; it could have been _days_. The last he remembered, it was Wednesday and they were _supposed_ to have been trailing a lead outside of Grenada, Mississippi regarding humans being found eviscerated and dumped in in a lake after disappearing for weeks. Sam was beside him in the passenger seat. Castiel had tagged along under the pretense of ‘taking a break from heaven.’ Whatever that meant.

But where were they _now_? And why were they not getting his ass _out_ of there? Another shaky breath; another drop of red to the floor, from his wrists, the holes of his sewn-shut mouth, staining his nakedness. If they could only see him now.

“ _You’re awake_ ,” a voice beckoned to him, amused in tone. “ _How are you feeling today_?”

 _My chest hurts, I can’t breathe, I can’t feel my fucking arms_ , the list went on in his head; his mouth never spoke a word. A cold hand crept over his shoulder, the warmth of his body seeping from his skin into something that _wasn't_ , leaving him shivering from poorly restrained terror.

“ _You won’t have to worry much longer_ ,” it spoke to him again, its black mass rounding his prone form to stand before him. Hazed eyes glared upon the formless figure, its head tilted dangerously to the right in observance. Terrifying wasn't the first word he thought, but it was a close runner up. This was fear, pain, _Hell_ in its purest form, embodied. And against his will he felt his mouth opening, blood spilling through the stitched holes as a small tendril of white escaped, the creature swallowing it whole.

He felt lighter, somehow. Less aware, more frayed at the edges. The world dulled in intensity, pain centralizing.

He was going to die there. Alone and afraid.

“ _I’ll put you out of your misery soon enough, Winchester._ ”

-+-+-+-+-+-

In the background, he overhead Sam making frantic phone calls to whatever police department they were near – somewhere around Pontotoc, as said the road sign two miles down the road. They weren’t supplying any useful information, judging by the younger Winchester’s furrowed brow and labored breathing. Blood welled from a bitten lower lip, threatening to rush over. A voice on the speakerphone rang out, “None o’ my men seen ‘nyone by the name o’ Skinner, Mr. Williams. ‘M sorry he’s missin’, but there’s not much I c’n do t’help ya ‘til he shows up. ‘N I’m sure ‘e will.”

Sam’s sigh spoke volumes. “Thank you for your help,” he ended curtly before hanging up and throwing the phone onto the opposite bed for the fourth time. Elbows digging into his knees, he gripped his hair by the roots. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Castiel heaved a sigh from his seat across the room, eyeing the laptop screen on the table. ‘Classic Car Repairs’ and ‘Bodies Recovered from Grenada Lake’ were open in the browser. It would be a feat if they could leave town before sundown; the Impala had seen better days, admittedly. The incident was a blur, even to _him_. Two miles outside Tupelo on an otherwise deserted two-lane road, the vehicle somehow wound up wrapping itself around a tree that hadn’t previously been there, and by the time they both awoke, Sam with a head wound and a nasty bruise blooming with it, Dean was gone, the only proof of his existence left behind being that of a bloodstain on the steering wheel and scarlet handprints smeared across the exterior glass.

He had been dragged away, they knew that much. There wasn't much else to go on. A wrecker service pulled them and the shattered vehicle to a station on the opposite side of town, where they stayed and researched since. Neither were in the mood to steal a car just to drive without a hunch. They needed a lead.

“If he were dead, I would have felt his soul exit this plane,” Castiel supplied, knowing it wouldn't be enough. He couldn't tell the exact truth, either. Every few hours, a twinge ran down his arm and ended in his palm, the lessening presence giving him pause. Hour upon hour, he felt the man slipping futher away, the former brightness of the soul he cradled high becoming more muted. Distant. He couldn't inform Sam – he didn't need anymore stress.

“You don’t… y’know, sense him, or anything?” Sam looked up, vulnerability ingrained into his gaze, eyes nearing bloodshot. Apprehension radiated from his soul in waves. He hadn’t slept since Dean vanished. “What about the Angels? It’s been two _days_ , you haven’t heard _anything_? Hell, at this point, I’ll even take a _Demons_ word for it!”

He shook his head, keeping his eyes on the topmost article on the dimmed screen. “It’s not that simple.” Because it wasn't. It never was. “Wherever he is, it doesn’t want us to find him.” He scrolled through the page. “…Where did you say the other residents were abducted from?”

Sam made a noise of contemplation before lifting himself from the rickety mattress, crossing the room to pull the travel atlas from underneath his laptop. Eight cities were circled in red permanent marker. “Belzoni, Indianola, Oxford, Tupelo, Aberdeen, Macon, Philadelphia, Canton… All dumped in Grenada Lake. Why, do you think there’s a connection?”

Castiel took a hotel pen and stood at Sam’s side, drawing black lines connecting the cities. One city stood in the path – Sam hummed in understanding. “It’s following a pattern.”

“Is it trying to complete a spiral?” Sam took the pen and filled in the final leg of the shape, circling Yazoo City in bright ink. “You think he’s there?”

“It’s a possibility,” Castiel confirmed with a nod. “Your vehicle won’t be ready until tomorrow afternoon, though.”

“We’ll get a rental or jack whatever’s in the parking lot.” Sam scurried across the room and loaded his duffle, half unloaded of clothing, with the weaponry they had scavenged from the back of the Impala in the event the shop owner decided to steal whatever he could from the trunk. Sam said he looked skeevy – he had to agree with him. “Leave the rest here, we’ll come back for it.”

Castiel watched him storm out of their hotel room, taking off into a sprint across the lot and then the road. He would follow, he decided. After the pang in his heart stopped making him want to collapse into a heap on the water-stained carpet.

-+-+-+-+-+-

It was carving into him, that much he registered. Sigils around his heart, slender lines threatening to break through his tattoo and shred it to pieces. Blood flowed freely from a gash in his ribcage that reached down to the bone. If he weren’t numb, he would have screamed. How much pain could the human body take before the victim died? Sam would probably know. He knew everything, didn't he? Good ol’ Sam. Any minute now, he would bust through the warehouse door and save him.

Ten minutes ago, he said the same thing. Still no Sam. Still no Castiel. He probably didn't know he was missing in the first place, probably off doing something Heaven related, as always. Leaving him by his lonesome in the middle of bumfuck Mississippi to drown in his own blood. Maybe he deserved it – maybe this was penance for all the people he’d let die, the lives lost along the way. Maybe if he died—.

“ _Your thoughts are delicious_ ,” the creature spoke, its shadowy claw drawing intricate designs to the skin of his wrists, irreparably damaged from the hooks embedded there. Infection would set in soon; maybe he would die before they rotted off. “ _But you’re not dead enough, yet. Give it time._ ” Even without a face, Dean could tell the _thing_ was smirking. “ _What will it take to get you to break, I wonder_?”

He didn't answer. The memory of that final day still burned fresh in his mind; if he could keep it repressed long enough, then maybe the creature wouldn't use it to his advantage. So far, its attempts to wound him consisted of claws and using scrap chains as whips. It would progress soon; it always did. “ _What if I did this_?”

Shadowed fingers shoved in his mouth, Dean let out a pained sob as the claws scraped the inside of his left cheek, tearing through skin. The same treatment repeated the right – one of the stitches snapped with the force of his scream.

“ _Your pain is wonderful. Give me more_.”

-+-+-+-+-+-

One stolen junker of an El Camino and the strongest coffee Mississippi could offer later, they were on the road south towards Route 49, Sam white knuckling it most of the way. How he was able to possess such sheer determination to save his brother was a spectacle.

If Dean could see him.

“There’s a radio tower off of West Second Street.” Castiel stared at the map displayed on his phone; it wasn’t the best, but it would do. The closer they could get, the sooner they would be to saving Dean, if he wasn’t already gone; he couldn't be so sure anymore. The spasms came every few minutes, increasing in intensity. Wounds were budding on his wrists and arms; he refused to let them be shown. By the time Sam found him cowering on the floor minutes before their departure, red had already seeped through his shirt and dyed the floor an off color; he passed it off as already being there. As far as he knew, Sam bought it. “Chapman Street. The surrounding buildings look unoccupied.”

With a nod of acknowledgement, Sam kept his eyes on the road, accelerator pressed to the floorboards. The engine groaned from the strain. Interlinked thoughts entertained him for all of a minute – would the car be able to withstand the trip? Would they make it on time? And even if they _did_ get there, who was to say Dean would be alive? His foot tapped anxiously; the taste of copper floated on his tongue. Whatever it was that had Dean was using his soul to its advantage and damaging their bond in the process. The only question was, _how_.

“I should’ve been driving,” Sam broke the silence in the aging vehicle, the leather of the wheel scrunching under his grip. “It could’ve taken me instead, not hi—.”

“It’s not your fault.” It was a futile attempt at consolation; nothing he said would bring the man any peace, no matter how small. Saying things like ‘it could happen to anyone’ would only enrage him further. But that was the truth – that was the consequence of their job, being snatched away by the very being they were trying to capture. Even as an onlooker, he knew the risks the brothers took. The lives they held in the palm of their hand every day, determined by how fast they were and whether they lived or died in the process.

This would not be one of the latter instances, if he had anything to do with it. Dean’s death would not be on Sam’s hands, nor his.

“So lets say we _do_ find him alive—.”

“—He’s not _dead_ , Sam—.”

“—Can you kill the thing that has him?”

“Do you have an idea of what it could be?” Their research had turned up next to nothing on just what the creature might be. All of the usual suspects were out – nothing outside of Demons could kidnap an unwilling individual and drag them to a far off location, and even then, there was no trace of sulfur anywhere after the crash. Just castoff and handprints. Witches, wendigos, even werewolves would have kept him close by and killed him before they were even awake.

They would’ve found him by then, if so.

“What about—It’s a long shot, but what do you know about the Choctaw?” Castiel cocked an eyebrow. “We’re in Mississippi and this is their land, what if the monsters in their myths were real? Didn’t they believe in—.”

“Shadow people,” he interjected. That would explain so many things. “It’s using soul magic, it’s… draining him. As long as he doesn't break,” he swallowed; more blood, “we should be able to find him.”

Sam glanced in his direction, a new form of worry furrowing his brow. “Cas, are you okay?”

 _Was_ he? Repressing the pain was only worsening the situation, but if he let himself feel full and well what Dean was experiencing, he would be crippled. That form of pain wasn’t meant for an Angel, or anyone, for that matter. His stomach turned. “I think I may be sick.”

That was all Sam needed to hear. The tachometer dropped from the red line to nothing as he hit the breaks, pulling the – probably grateful – car off to the side of the two-lane highway. From there, Castiel threw open the door and took a record three steps before hunching over and vomiting scarlet into the grass, Sam rubbing a line along his spine above his coat. His hands were shaking. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Sam pulled him away from the bloodied puddle, helping him to sit in the passenger seat, feet scuffing the overgrown shoulder of the road. Kneeling at his shoes, he patted Castiel’s knee. “What’s going on? You’ve been bleeding the last fifty miles.”

“You saw?” Of course he did; he wasn’t naïve. It didn’t matter. “You’re aware of mine and Dean’s… _bond_ , correct?”

Sam watched him shuck off his coat and jacket, revealing the reddened expanse of his dress shirt, now thoroughly soaked through. Trembling hands couldn't budge the buttons; the younger brother shoved them aside and helped him out of his shirt without a word. “Yeah, your soul bond, right? Are you saying—.”

The minute the sigils and other gnarled gashes were revealed, Sam’s jaw snapped shut. They were worse than either of them could have imagined; another set was forming across his chest, claws ripping his skin to the bone. He could _feel_ it. With a shuddering breath, he looked up and uttered, “We’re dying.”

-+-+-+-+-+-

Maybe if he slumped forward more, the hooks in his torso would rip free and alleviate the pressure in his chest. Dislocating his shoulders would work just as effectively, if only he could _feel_ them. Maybe they already were. “ _Tell me about your brother_ ,” the mass spoke before him, fingers pulling the strings from his wounded mouth free. “ _Do you feel guilty for what you’ve put him through_? _For all those years_?”

Head lowered, he closed his eyes to the growing puddle below him. _I’m dying, I’m actually dying, and they’re not gonna find me_. “…Yes,” he rasped through an exhale; breaths were coming few and far between now. The room was spinning. “My fault – shouldn't’ve dragged him along with me. Should’ve gone on my own.”

“ _Everything is your fault, isn’t it_?” it asked. Copper-tinged fingers gripped him by the scalp, forcing him to stare into its blank face, another wisp of white being sucked from deep within. “ _How much blood is on your hands_?”

“Everyone.” Thunder cracked overhead; rain was coming. “Everyone I knew…”

An invisible smile lit its face. “ _What about those you’ve loved_? _Your brother, your father, mother – you couldn’t save them, could you_?” Dean nodded solemnly. “ _They won’t save you now. Not even the Angel I’ve been torturing along with you._ ”

… _What_?

-+-+-+-+-+-

Sam held his ruined shirt in his hands, visible tears threatening to spill over. “Wait, wait, you’re dying? What—.”

“We don’t have time.” Castiel stood, promptly collapsing into Sam’s unexpected hold, bringing them both to the grass in a heap. “It’s going to eat his _soul_ , Sam. We have to go—.”

“No, you’re going to _explain_.” Sam shook his shoulders, that same determination once again overriding any and all emotions. “Why is this happening to you?”

Another rush of bile threatened to breech; he choked it back with force and clutched his stomach tight, willing himself to _calm down_. “When I pulled him from Hell, I patched his soul together with my grace. We’re irrevocably bound together. I feel as he does and he does as I, if he were to allow himself to. Few creatures can effect an Angel in this manner.” He shivered; Sam placed a hand over the holes near his neck, the skin tearing away. _He’s free_. “I’ll heal. He won’t.”

“Cas—!” Sam pulled him to his feet. “You should’ve said something!”

“It wasn’t important.” His eyes wouldn't settle on one particular area. “Dean is our priority—.”

“Look at yourself!” He shook Castiel again. “You can't do anything like this, you can barely stand!”

“Sam, _drive_ ,” he sputtered. “Whether I survive or not is irrelevant. Save Dean.”

Some sort of understanding flitted across the younger Winchester’s face, but he made no mention of it, even after they pulled back onto the road. He pressed his coat close, hoping halfheartedly to stop the bleeding. Somewhere around Tchula, the world faded into black; at least the pain stopped.

-+-+-+-+-+-

“ _Oh, you didn’t know_?” it laughed. “ _Your souls are intertwined. Everything I’ve done to you, he’s felt. You’ll be dead long before he succumbs, though. Don’t you worry_.”

Red overcame his vision; not from the blood regularly seeping from his eyes, but from rage. He didn't care about the _soul bond_ – he cared about _Cas_. “You don’t bring him into this!” The creature sneered in his face. Dean lurched forward. “He doesn’t have anything—.”

“ _But you do_.” A tap to his cheek; void legs treaded the concrete, pacing in a circular motion, always getting closer, closer. “ _Your soul contains grace, and with that, I can continue the cycle. You’re the only thing standing in my way. So_ ,” a hand to his neck, “ _tell me about your Angel. Do you feel guilty, for everything you’ve put him through_? _Everything he’s done for you, have you ever thanked him for it_?”

The hand shoved him forward, the hooks ripping through the remnants of his skin and propelling him to the ground. His wrists were the only thing that kept him from smashing his face. “No,” he hissed in defeat. He hadn’t – he’d never had the chance. Castiel was gone more often than not. Once a case was done or he was no longer needed, he took wing and never spoke a word more. “Never.”

“ _Because you don’t feel yourself worthy of everything he’s done for you, do you_? _He gives you the world and you don’t understand why_.”

Black spots dotted his vision. “Pretty much hit the nail on th’ head, didn’t you?”

The creature hummed in amusement. “ _It’s too bad, really. He thinks you’re the greatest thing in existence, and you couldn't care less_.”

“That’s a li—.”

“ _Is it_? _Do you care about anything other than yourself_?”

That wasn’t the issue – it was that he cared too _much_. He put his heart into everything he did and never expected anything in return. He didn't need appreciation, despite how much his soul cried out for it. For attention, affection, reciprocation. He lived for others; he couldn't stand himself.

“ _Everyone you love leaves you, Winchester. Your brother wants nothing to do with you. The Angel regrets pulling you from the pit. Your family pities your plight. So why don’t you just give up_? _They’re not coming to save you. You’re better off dead, isn’t that right_?”

He lowered his head. “Just…”

-+-+-+-+-+-

“He’s in there.”

Parked outside a decently sized warehouse, Castiel steeled himself, Sam at his side, pulling whatever weaponry that suited their need. Whether they could actually kill it or not was the question they kept at the back of their minds. If he could get a hold of it first, then he could most likely put it out of its misery. Sam might have less luck, but at least he could disable it if necessary. “And you’re sure about this?”

Castiel tossed him a spare blade. “His soul is calling to me, it knows I’m here. I can’t say as to what his physical state is, though.”

“Then lets go.”

They left the doors to the El Camino open and walked lightly towards the half open door; a light rustling was heard from inside, mingling with the occasional drip of what he _hoped_ was the beginnings of rainfall on the tin roof. No voices sounded until some _thing_ laughed, plotting – his blade slipped into his hand from the arm of his coat, the only piece of clothing he’d managed to salvage. The bleeding had stopped. He didn't know what to make of it.

Angel blade in hand, Sam lead the infiltration and rushed through the door, screaming a string of obscenities at whatever he saw. Castiel followed after mechanically, taking in the room and its various windows and catwalks, and the _man_ amidst them all, lying face down in a pool of his own blood. Towering over his body and a good three feet above _Sam_ , the _Impa Shilup_ howled and lunged towards him, the hunter narrowly avoiding the swipe of its claws. He swung the weapon into the creature’s leg, cutting through the shadow but failing to seriously injure it.

It was solid – it could _kill_ them. If Sam couldn't stand, he wouldn't stand a chance.

He called for Sam to duck, something he did all too willingly when the thing took another swing at him, its hand embedding into the concrete at their feet. Once he had successfully rolled out of range, Castiel flung his weapon in the general direction of the being, the blade jamming to the hilt through its torso and sending it up in flames. Four bursts of pale white exited the screeching figure before it inevitably collapsed into ash, reaching heavenward and exiting through one of the various shattered windows; souls of the departed, flying to where they belonged.

The brightest though, the one most familiar to him, was circling the body in the middle of the room, nudging its arm. Sam was busy trying to roll his brother over, to breathe life into him. Vaguely he heard the words ‘no pulse’ being shouted at him; he couldn't understand. His steady walk turned to a stumbling sprint before he dropped to his knees, taking Dean’s pale face in his hands. “He’s not breathing—,” Sam gasped, two fingers to the pulse point of his neck, another above his mouth. “He’s dead, he’s de—.”

“He’s not dead.” The light eagerly pulsing at his side pushed at his hand, enveloping the appendage and dragging it towards his forehead. Curious.

Sam thought so as well. “Does he… want you to heal him?”

In sharp realization, Castiel nodded and closed his eyes and allowed his consciousness to narrow to the broken human before him. The world went black.

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

For the most part, they progressed with their lives as they normally would have. The first week was simple enough; Dean resumed his research with Sam at the bunker, living as if nothing had transpired over the last three days. As far as they knew, he remembered waking up – naked and without a scratch – in that warehouse, and immediately ordered that Castiel give him his coat so that he could ‘keep his dignity and not walk around bare-assed in front of two grown-ass men and everyone else in the state.’ They hadn’t told him why. He could cross that bridge when he came to it.

The inevitable break in his sanity shouldn’t have come to a shock to them; they had been waiting for the ball to drop for days, and even expected the Impala to set him off, but neither of them could have expected that cutting the pad of his finger on a knife would be the trigger to bring him to his knees.

Five days after their return, the first signs of the collapse started at three AM with the sound of pottery shattering in the kitchen. Sam was the first to awaken to the noise, initially thinking that someone or something had broken in, despite the impossibility of the idea. Or, Castiel was rummaging through the library while they were asleep again. He spent more time there when he was around than anywhere else, always looking for one item or another, never explaining just what it would be used for. Probably Angel business, as usual.

Though, it wasn't Castiel he found in the kitchen – it was _Dean_ , hands gripping the edge of the counter, the remnants of one of the monogrammed Men of Letters mugs littering the floor. Save for the mildly labored breathing, he was still, his air radiating ‘ _approach with caution_.’ With socked feet he padded across the room, keeping at a respectable distance. “Dean?”

The name must have startled him awake; Dean spun to face him with a wearied expression, rigid shoulders slouching with realization. “…Oh, hey. Didn’t mean to wake you.” He turned back towards the coffee maker, opting to stare instead of making a move to use it.

He shrugged through exhaustion and pulled out one of the steel chairs, lifting instead of dragging; the less noise he made, the less of a chance of Dean snapping. “I was already up,” he lied. “Couldn’t sleep?”

His brother shook his head and eyed the broken ceramic at his feet. “Must’ve…”

 _He probably fell asleep standing there_. “How’re you feeling?” he asked. Dean had resorted to picking up the shards with his bare hands, reaching up to place them atop the counter in a haphazard pile.

Behind them, the stainless steel clock ticked on. “It’s three in the morning and you wanna talk about feelings _now_?” Dean chuckled; the smile on his lips was forced, he could tell. “Can’t you save it ‘til a decent hour?”

“ _Dean_.” Leaning forward, he folded his hands on the tabletop. “You haven’t really said anything since—.”

“—Mississippi—?”

“—Yeah.”

“Look, I don’t _remember_ what you’re talking about. It wasn’t even that bad. Don’t even got a scratch on me, do I?” For emphasis, he stood and outstretched his arms. “See? Not bad.”

 _But you didn’t see yourself in there. You didn’t see your soul outside your fucking body_! Sam turned to watch the clock. “I’m just worried about – you know. Cas is too—.”

“Like he’s been around,” Dean scoffed. He tossed the handful of remnants into the garbage can, wiping the splinters on the fabric of his robe. “He hasn’t been here since we got back. Course, you’re always in the library, so you wouldn't know.”

“It doesn’t mean he doesn’t _care_.” Maybe Dean was right – maybe it _was_ too early to be having this conversation when he could be snoring soundly instead. Why wasn’t he in bed, again? “You know we’re here—.”

“—Like that’s ever done any good—.”

“ _Dean_!” In his haste to stand, he allowed the chair to grate against the tile; Dean flinched _hard_ at the noise, otherwise remaining upright and alert. “Would you _listen_ to me?”

“I _get_ it, Sammy.” He turned back towards the sink; his hands were shaking at his sides. “I really do. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll talk about it when I’m _ready_. Just—back off, okay?”

Hands up in a show of compliance, he left his brother to wallow alone and walked through the halls. Castiel was standing outside of Dean’s room, arms crossed in worry. Sam just shook his head and closed his door behind him. He would come to his senses, eventually.

-+-+-+-+-+-

‘Eventually’ turned out to be five hours. In a horrible twist of déjà vu, Sam found his brother huddled in a corner of his bedroom, head in his hands; a thin rivulet of red streaked the back of his arm, an occasional fresh drop joining the trail. Another few lines – self-inflicted, from the looks of it – formed an intricate pattern on his wrist, radiating vertically from where he previously pulled hook from bone.

He didn't have to speak a word. “Cut my thumb.” Though muffled, his voice resounded in the pale light of the room. This wasn't his brother – this was a man overtaken by guilt and fear, reduced to cowering from the world in the darkness of his own sanctuary. The stoic reserve, the steadfast determination were all a sham – at his heart, he was still a child, masking fear with valiance, replacing intimacy with apathy. The side he bore to no one was on full display to anyone choosing to bear witness.

And it was _terrifying_. He crossed the room to sit before his brother, taking his trembling form into his arms, hoping to be at least of _some_ comfort. Dean sobbed openly into his shirt; the incisions left behind bled life into his pants leg. “My fault,” he breathed, “All my fault.”

Sam made no move to stop him, instead letting Dean spew the slew of memories to awaiting ears, atrocities he hadn’t heard from him since his confession after Hell. The only difference between then and now was that this creature intended to kill him after he was done with his soul. No attempt to prologue the deed, no reason to keep him alive – it would have left Dean to die. And die he did for two minutes.

It wouldn't have mattered if they found him – they didn’t make it on time to save him.

-+-+-+-+-+-

In retrospect, sitting fully clothed under the cold spray of the shower for an hour probably wasn't ideal if he wanted to keep his sanity – and immune system – in tact. But it was better than being anywhere else with Sam checking on him every ten minutes and half expecting Castiel to fly down and scold him. So he cut himself the day before; what was the big deal? He could’ve done worse – he could’ve pulled the trigger of the gun that sat in his mouth for ten minutes. Apparently the former was the worse of the scenarios, according to his brother.

Alive, he could be scolded and disregarded after. Dead, he would probably be brought back just so he could be yelled at.

Then again, Castiel would probably tear him a new one as well. He didn't know which was worse, having Sam breathing down his neck or an Angel beating the snot out of him. Not that he didn't deserve it – in the light of recent events, he was probably entitled to being thrown back into the Pit. He scrubbed a hand down his face, letting his head rest against the ceramic tiling of the wall. _Cold._

 _I’ve been a dick, Cas… To you, to everyone. You, probably more. God, I just_ … Eyes closed to the room, he blew out a breath. _I should’ve… I never really ‘ppreciated what we had, y’know_? _You die for me, and I don’t even… I can’t even say it._

“You don’t have to.”

The numbness of his limbs and the overbearing weight of his sodden clothing barely allowed him to jump up; he was _never_ going to get used to having him pop out of nowhere. Instead, he opened his eyes to Castiel, the Angel standing inches before his feet, coat mysteriously missing. The guy wore it everywhere – why drop it now? “Sam called you?”

In lieu of answering, Castiel joined him under the showerhead and took his shredded wrist in his hand. The fingers tracing the cuts stung mildly; he allowed him to touch, in the hopes he would heal the wounds. He did no such thing, choosing solely to stare. “You were praying,” he said. His toes brushed scuffed loafers; Castiel pushed back in recognition ever so lightly. “I was waiting for you to remember.”

“Y’shoulda wiped my brain or something.” He pulled his arm back, Castiel making no attempt to stop him. “The shit that— _thing_ did to me, and you expect me to just accept it?”

“It wasn’t Hell.” That much was true. At least he hadn’t been set on fire. “Its only interest was to kill you. It fed off your suffering. It had no intention of breaking you in the way Alastair did.”

“Sure ‘s fuck _felt_ like it,” he groused. “It said it wanted to continue the cycle by eating my _soul_. And it was _torturing_ you—.”

“It said that?”

Castiel was more bemused than anything; Dean half expected him to be angry. He swallowed, adding, “Why do I have grace inside me, Cas?” Patting his thigh, he smirked wildly. “You been doin’ stuff to me when I sleep?”

“Your soul was shattered when I found you in Hell.” _…Oh_. “Reconstructing you was tedious. Angels weren’t meant to rescue souls from such a fate… My garrison had no faith that you would survive the rising. You were… especially difficult. You resisted me even as I wove you together.” The Angel simpered and took his wrist again, the bright twinge of his skin knitting back together making him wince. “You’ve provided me with the greatest challenge I’ve known, time and time again.”

“Should I be apologizing?” Dean nudged his shoulder. “You knew what you were getting into, pullin’ my ass outta there.”

“I did.” Castiel threaded their fingers together; he found that he didn’t mind. “I don’t regret it, either.”

His heart skipped – so it _was_ using him. Taking advantage of his insecurities and throwing them back in his face. After its final admission, he couldn't recall a thing. Perhaps he died, or maybe the rest of his soul vacated his body. “Fuckin’… What _was_ that thing, anyway?”

“Impa Shilup,” Castiel confirmed. “A shadow figure that eats the souls of the depressed and those who linger in particularly evil ways of thinking. It sought you out for obvious reasons, despite deviating from its intended path to do so.”

“Dick move.” He pulled his legs tight to his body, shuddering from the cold that began to permeate his bones; given his luck, he would probably catch pneumonia. “What took you guys so long, ‘nyway?”

“We had no idea of what could move you so far, so fast. We found that the list of murders formed a spiral when drawn out by city and date. Yazoo was the next city available.”

“Took you two days? Totally not cool.” With another shiver, Castiel pulled him closer with an arm around his shoulders, his other hand taking his, pressing his lips to the digits. He scrunched his nose. “What’d I tell you about personal space, dude?”

“I don’t see you pushing me away,” the Angel retorted. Upon Dean’s acceptance, Castiel repeated the treatment to his hand, pressing small, chaste kisses to the inside of his wrist. Dean watched, transfixed at the open display of affection being presented. “I almost died for you.” Castiel kneaded the skin of his palm lightly, the tenseness in his bones dissipating at such a small gesture. The words stung. “I felt you dying. I told Sam to go without me. I didn’t… I didn’t want to see you like that.” _Again._

Both settling against the wall, Dean watched his toes; he couldn't feel the water sliding down his skin. At some point, he’d need to shut the faucet off. “I wanted to die,” he admitted. “Haven’t really ever _stopped_. And when it said it was _done_ with me, I just…”

“But, your soul begged me to heal you.” Castiel’s tone was somber; he caught himself staring at the Angel, waiting for _some_ sort of explanation. Since when did his soul have a say in anything, anyway? “When we found you, your body was barely breathing. It was… beautiful to see again, despite the circumstances.”

“Man, don’t call it ‘beautiful.’” He turned to look at an aging crack in the stall’s wall. “’S just weird.”

“But it is.” Castiel’s assertion was more than he could bear. Everything he was doing – the touches, the general closeness, the kisses that lingered on his fingertips – riled him. Not enough to make him call the Angel out on it, but enough to make his skin crawl. He didn't _deserve_ it. “The minute I saw you, however broken you were, I thought you were magnificent.” He exhaled hotly into the chilled air between them. “No matter how often you deny it, I’ll always believe that.”

Sinking somewhat, he rested his head on Castiel’s shoulder, the Angel still toying with his hand, now moving to his wrist. Despite being ridden of every gash and scratch inflicted on him, he could still see the holes, water washing red down the drain. He wanted to run. “Did you at _least_ kill the thing?”

With Castiel’s confirmation, Dean closed his eyes to the sounds of the spray and the glaring lights overhead. For the briefest of seconds, he could have _sworn_ he felt the soft silk of feathers against his forearm. “’M cold.”

Castiel placed a concerned kiss to his hair before pulling him closer, twining their fingers together. “Do you want to leave?”

“Wanna stay.” He curled closer into the warmth of his friend, feeling himself nod in and out of awareness. “You won’t leave, right?”

There was a pause – great, he was _actually_ going to leave again, wasn’t he? Leave him high and dry for a week and only show up when its convenient for him – wasn't that how it went? But instead of hearing the flap of wings he’d become accustomed to, he felt Castiel rest his cheek atop his head, sighing low. “Not anymore.”

Outside on the bench, an old robe and a dirty trench coat lay quietly, tangled in one another, undisturbed. No one spoke a word of it.

-+-+-+-+-+-

He awoke later that afternoon in his own bed, two blankets draped over his waist and the hair not matted to his head standing up in every direction. An additional weight pinned him into the memory foam, and despite all his years of training and quick reaction time to any and all circumstances, he felt no need to flee. It was safe, he knew. Staring into the face of an Angel – a very _naked_ Angel, at that – would have given him a coronary months ago, when such a thing was a near impossibility. Whatever it meant, waking up bare next to each other, would be discussed later.

Instead, he dragged Castiel closer with one arm, pulling the blankets over their bodies and curling into the warmth of his friend, enveloped in wings he knew shouldn't exist. They smelled of fresh linens and sunlight, petrichor and shelter. Peace.

 _Home_.

Between them, he took Castiel’s hands and held them tight.

_Thank you… For everything._

**Author's Note:**

> This shouldn't've taken me four days but for some reason it did. I primarily write psychological horror/drama also, so I REALLY don't know why this took forever. I've also had that shower scene in my head for two months and finally found an excuse to write it. Heart-to-hearts are fun but time consuming.
> 
> Title from the R.E.M. song, "Saturn Return," which has pretty much been on repeat since I bought "Reveal."
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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